Poetry of the first world war in place in cold November, casting of absent drums

 

 

 

 

 

 

since it is   that time of year again    here is  my  1994  first world war poem   Absent Drums

 written for the  80th anniversary   this is  old lesser  stuff    for me   and  as usual at the time   failed to gain acceptance  from the  poetry review  editorial board  as  it was  too mocking     of the  soldier war poets 

 

 

I stumbled across a war Poet, in place in cold November

finding blank pictures  brief notices.

I saw falling soldiers, attention to line

 

I wanted to meet  the author of those days

 know I didn't have to speak to him,

all dead and  awaking from unusual dreams.

Heavy with burst  balloon face,

eyes like a day in childhood ,blurred and pastel.

Alive  and hopeless,  St George and the Dragon- monster still breathing.

He had time to shit himself, this shows a lack of imagination.

 

He tells me nothing !,

has empty pockets.

a girl shares his photograph,

holding her so close you could smell the paper she was made of.

a lover was here, the lips don't move, kiss dried worms in fresh roses.

 

Face down in grey waters, a rising  and dying god, empty of soul.

war poet apart shows a lack of simile,

he simply  stinks and rots , glimmering.

I envy his insight, to find death before sleep, death in forgotten places,

 know the experience  continue to write.

 

I read the War Verses:

 dead boys alive,

buried flag and still wind in voices.

 

I read the  war verses:

casting of absent drums,

echo of nameless trumpets

 

This warrior of Empire farewell , recited soldier out of place with his poems of Christian failure and dying no death.

bitter clichés of pale angels and Englishmen,

brambles in Khaki mouldering.

 

We shall only forget them

make better slaughter of the years, remain all visual.

compose new words for hymnal apocalypse.

 

MARK  LITTLER "absent drums 1994